


In Temperance, Truth

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on DA Kink Meme:</p><p>It can be pretty hard for a mage to be with someone who despises everything you are. What if Fenris finally said something that deeply hurt Diplomatic! or Sarcastic!Hawke? A Hawke that has lost everything thinks he should not lose his dignity and snaps-</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Temperance, Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This whole Spirit Healer!Temperance Hawke thing may be my headcanon for M!Hawke. Still deciding. I swear I write things other than M!Hawke/Fenris sometimes.

The foundry is an acid stain on the sky in night-time Kirkwall, a nightmare of yellow fire in the middle of Lowtown. Hawke is sitting on the pier, knees drawn up so he can rest his elbows on them, and watches the fires burn, the ash fly. It's as though the foundry's true purpose is to give the City of Chains its only mimicry of snow. Being directly on the sea and damn near tropical to boot, Kirkwall never sees snow. In the last five winters he's experienced, he has seen sleet and hail and plenty of gray, cold, unpleasant rain. One day, it will be pleasant enough to walk about outside simply for the pleasure of walking. The next, it will be so cold that sweat freezes on your skin; but the ocean doesn't freeze over, so never much _colder_ than that, at least.

No snow, no mud. No dogs. Nothing like Ferelden.

He rolls a small stone about under one finger, pushing it along the rough wood of the pier, end over end over end. There are a lot of things he misses about Lothering that are stupid, inane. He misses being able to pass as a normal person, no Champion This, Champion That, no templars leering at him out of the corners of dark streets, watching, waiting for him to misstep and earn a sentence in the Gallows. He misses being able to look up at night and see the stars, instead of a sky bleached to an ominous dark blue under the foundry's fulvous fire.

He misses the smell of fresh air. Grass. Trees. Of foliage and fauna in general more healthy and exuberant than the straggling, broken things that live and grow near Kirkwall. He is tired of feeling like he must remain in Kirkwall for his own safety, and yet never feeling safe. Tired of the statues of weeping slaves that line the streets and the Gallows and the channel all ships take in when arriving at the Docks.

Misses his parents.

Bethany.

He puts his head between his knees to steady his breath and sort himself out, hands locked together in a nervous gesture he picked up from his father when he was only a little boy. Fingers lace with fingers, and he wrings his hands in a slow motion that is more about crushing his hands together in a death grip until he begins to feel calm again than anything else. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Tonight it doesn't. He is trapped in a looping memory of his mother's face, her face, her _face_ , and he will long ago have broken his fingers before he will ever be at peace with that image.

Footsteps, soft and bare, approach the spot where he sits after he has been there for quite some time. By now, the moon is high and full, only her lonesome face visible of all the wonders of the night sky. He lifts his head to see if it is Merrill or Fenris. He wouldn't mind talking to Merrill just now; they have that miserable ache for Ferelden in common, and he could use a friend. Not that Fenris isn't a friend-- maybe even more than, if he ever decides he feels like coming back-- but he has no love of Ferelden since he has never been there.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Fenris's voice is harsh on the still air, but not with liquor. Hawke can sense that the elf finds it difficult to speak to him, these days. He has made a promise to himself not to interfere with Fenris's emotions, giving the elf as much respect as he can.

This results in enduring a lot of unfocused anger, generally, but he tells himself that the end result will be worth it. A Fenris who has become confident in speaking his mind may someday be confident enough to be comfortable with the reality that not all mages are seeking to destroy him, personally. Hawke would love to see that reality.

Hawke answers, after a moment or two to consider his words, "I'm just thinking."

Clearly unsatisfied with this answer, Fenris steps closer, scowling, searching Hawke's face for some secret motive, for some deeper meaning. There is nothing to find. Hawke looks back at him tiredly. "Why do you wish to think _here_?"

Something about it, a note of personal ire or frustration, gives away the reason for his tone. Hawke laughs softly. "Sorry, did I make myself difficult to find?"

"You did." There is that pause Hawke has come to associate with Fenris's furtive glances over his shoulder, that look of being hunted, of never relaxing. Leather creaks, as Fenris crouches down to try to meet Hawke's eyes. "There has been a...disagreement, and Varric asked me to find you to resolve it as quickly as possible."

"That twitch," Hawke says warmly, reaching deep into himself for some reserve of pleasant calm, of patience. He is not feeling well tonight. He thinks if he were alone on a mountaintop that smelled strongly of forests in spring, he might be able to best this mood; but not otherwise. Not here. "suggests you were part of the disagreement, I think. Was it Merrill?"

"No," Fenris snarls quietly, averting his eyes in something akin to chagrin. Perhaps he is ruffled that his ruse of non-involvement was so easily discovered, but he continues with exceptional venom, "It was that _abomination_ you tolerate."

This, again. Hawke shuts his eyes a moment, gathering the last vestiges of his patience. He has had this argument too many times to think it worth pursuing. There is no resolution, save Anders's death, that would ever stop Fenris hating the man. It would, he thinks, be nice if Anders worked a bit harder not to give non-mages so very many excuses to hate and fear their magical brethren, but Fenris is hardly blameless.

That is neither here, nor there.

"What was the nature of the dispute?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light and unassuming as he slowly stands, fighting with sluggish muscles long since drowsy from his insistence on remaining in one place for too many hours. It is with a small smile that he remembers his staff can be used to help lever himself up and does so, digging its pointed tip into the wood as he gains his feet.

As soon Hawke has begun to move, Fenris steps back, giving him room. More accurately, evading his touch, lest he try something. It's-- hurtful, in some ways, that Fenris still doesn't even trust _him_. "Certain-- elements of Darktown have been raiding his clinic. In an effort to assist him, Varric, Isabela and I staged an attack to capture them."

Surprised, Hawke gestures for Fenris to lead the way. Only now, as they are moving, does he notice that Fenris is limping very slightly, and bleeding sluggishly from a cut in his stomach that he has been nursing with one hand. Since Fenris has not drawn attention to it, Hawke tries to find a means of approaching it that is more circuitous than simply healing it himself. "That sounds like it would be difficult to turn into an argument." Temporizing will not see the elf healed, however, and Hawke reaches out to catch Fenris's hand, gently moving it away to see the damage. Whatever caused it punctured deep; with a sympathetic hiss through his teeth, he asks, "What went wrong?"

"Your abomination did," Fenris snarls, clapping the hand back to his wound. "There were too many, and when they had overwhelmed us, the demon took hold and slaughtered them all. We cannot get it to relinquish its control over his body, though it will not harm anyone if they do not approach it; but it is difficult to keep his usual patients away so they do not discover his true identity."

At that news, Hawke breaks into a run, ignoring Fenris's scorn as they race down into Darktown. He hasn't time to be offended by Fenris's continued irritation-- not even to heal the wounds he saw, not yet-- if they're to save Anders from himself. With a minor charm for speed on his breath, he passes through the whirling corridors and walkways and tricky loops of Darktown at the speed of an unbroken dead run, arrives breathless, and finds Anders's body surrounded by the twisted corpses of nearly fifty mercenaries. It is a small wonder that Fenris and the others are alive, though he can immediately see why Varric had to send Fenris to get help.

Isabela's back is broken, and Varric's been skewered, pinned to the floor. His usually cheerful voice is a shadow of itself, hoarse with pain, though he smiles at the sight of reinforcements. "Hawke," he coughs. "I was starting to worry Broody had forgotten about us."

Everything in him screams at him to go to them at once, but he knows he must not leave Anders untended for even a second longer. Isabela is in excruciating pain, but she's not dead. Varric will last a few more seconds. As for Anders--

\--his glowing body throws up a hand, blasting Hawke with a bolt of pure power before he can get two steps forward. He ducks into a barrier, pressing forward the last bit of distance and tackling Anders's body to the floor, pinning him there with hands on his shoulders.

" _ **You will not stop me, human!**_ " Justice roars, shaking with fury; Anders' voice is weak beneath it, a hollow echo of the demon in his mind. The froth at the corner of his mouth steams faintly, and Hawke can feel the magic pulsing against Anders's skin, dangerously close to corrupting him through and through. " _ **I will kill anyone who dares bring violence to this place!**_ "

Hawke doesn't move, not even when the other mage's flailing body grabs his chest and casts an icy spell _into_ his ribs, pounding on them with brutal fists until something snaps and Hawke's strength falters. A knee catches his stomach, vaulting him off of Anders and sending Hawke flying across the room; when his back hits one of the patient-beds Anders had set up for overnight use, he sinks down bonelessly. Suddenly his breathing has the same wet weakness as Isabela's or Varric's. He gulps at the stale and ashy air of Darktown, laughs at himself, and lifts his hands, preparing a bolt of lightning to try and stop Anders from harming anyone else.

The spirit notices energy gathering before Hawke has even begun to inscribe the runes in the air with his fingers, and leaps after him, grabbing him by the throat with one hand and snapping his wrist with the other.

Pain; he chokes on it, or on that unnaturally strong hand and the way it pulses against his own skin, burning with some steadily overheating internal energy. All he can squeeze out is, "Anders, don't do this."

It's enough. Thank the Maker-- or maybe the Creators, or maybe just luck that it's enough. The incredible heat begins to falter and just like that, the blue fades from Anders's skin, letting him fit back together. His hand jerks back in horror and suddenly the room is full of apologies, Anders's voice rising in panic.

"Oh-oh no, oh Maker, what did I do? What happened? The others--" Remembering them, Anders spins on his heel, terrified. " _Shit!_ Varric? Isabela!!" and dashes out of the clinic to find them. Hawke grimaces, and stays where he is, trying to gather enough energy to heal himself while Anders tends to those whose wounds are more serious.

Hawke can taste his own blood (oddly cold) as he finally finds the energy he needs and feeds it into his ribs, blinking away tears of pain as the damage peels back like a shedding skin, fastening bone to bone once more, placing fluids escaped from broken pathways back where they belong. He doesn't need much, thankfully, and once his ribs are back in place and no longer frozen, he finds it much easier to breathe. By the time he has staggered out to see how the others are doing, Anders is pouring himself guiltily into mending Varric's stomach, while Varric cheekily makes cracks about going all to pieces.

Despite himself, Hawke almost laughs.

And then Fenris returns, still limping and clearly not well, left behind when Hawke took off at a dead run because he was simply incapable of keeping up. His expression is vague, distant with pain, and when Anders reaches up to tend to him, as well, he reels back, backhanding Anders with such strength he sends the poor bastard straight into the door of his clinic.

Anders crouches low, holding his head (not in pain, Hawke knows, but to keep Justice from coming out _again_ ) and hissing, "Sorry for caring, you _fucking prick._ "

"I do not need the assistance of any mage," the elf growls, clutching that angry stab wound ever tighter to staunch the flow of blood from it. "Certainly not an abomination about to turn."

Varric, glad to be healed, pats Anders's shoulder, inquiring if he's all right. Isabela is still too sore to sit up. And Hawke is too tired for this. He is too sick at heart.

He has seen enough.

"Get out of here, then." At first, the dangerously quiet voice is one he does not recognize as his own. He can see the way Isabela is looking at him out of the corner of his eye; hears Varric shuffle, turning to see what is happening; feels Anders glancing up.

Mostly, he sees the vicious look of impossible anger in Fenris's eyes flashing as he prepares for another tirade. Hawke speaks again, quickly, trying to silence it before Fenris says something else that Hawke will have to spend nights trying to forget, trying to reconcile with his own stupid love for this difficult man.

" _Get out of here_. Find your own way in Kirkwall. Join the templars, if you like." Just a little, the anger he feels is darkening his field of vision. He can feel the heat of it in his face. No abomination about to explode into disfigured flesh and flame, just a man.

"Like your brother?" Fenris inquires coldly, unfazed.

No one in their group has mentioned Carver's decision to join the Templars in the years since that decision was cast in stone. Hawke has not written to or spoken with his brother since, nor spoken to anyone else about his brother. Not even Fenris. He has broken this rule exactly once, and it was to tell his Uncle of their mother's death and pass it along to Carver out of a sense of duty.

Just like that, the incredible calm is gone, and Hawke has shoved Fenris back into a wall, is trying to beat him into silence as any Fereldan would, deep in his cups, fighting for honor. There aren't even words to describe the absolute _fury_ \-- the _betrayal_ \--

It is a brief, pathetic fight. Fenris almost embarrassingly breaks from Hawke's unpracticed hold with no effort whatsoever, twisting his right arm behind his back and reversing their positions, pinning Hawke face-first into the same wall. For good measure, Fenris reaches through his back, gripping his heart, twisting warningly, snarling "How _dare_ you!"

The pressure increases; Hawke coughs blood, and sobs, bitterly disappointed in himself for losing his temper, all the vicious fury draining out of him in an instant. All he can think is that his father had the right of it all along. _Love is dangerous. Love the wrong person, and they'll hurt you. They'll know what can hurt you, and they'll say it. Maybe they won't mean it, but they will._

"Bastard," he whispers, holding as still as he can, not sure how to expect the fight to end. "You never leave well enough alone."

Fenris slowly eases back, seeming surprised by his own reaction. He extricates his hand from Hawke's chest without killing him, though it takes another healing spell to breathe normally. The pressure on Hawke's arm does not relent (in fact, increases when Hawke's spell tingles against Fenris's fingers), and he breathes shallowly, waiting for Fenris to decide what he's going to do.

"Do you-- really wish for me to go?" Fenris asks at last, and he sounds curiously vulnerable, almost-- scared.

Hawke closes his eyes, leaning against the wall tiredly. "No. I don't."

"And yet you have told me to leave."

With a great deal of effort, Hawke summons the energy to put himself back into that calm space where he can deal with the stubbornness and hatred of the world around him. He finds that his placating smile will not yield itself, not while his thoughts still thunder with anger over Carver. He is only barely able to keep his voice level. "If you cannot accept magical aid, then we cannot help you. Anders can't. I can't."

"But--" Fenris frowns, seeming puzzled. This is clearly not what he expected would happen. "Why did you attack me?"

Hawke feels his body go rigid with rage and struggles to keep his temper in check. He thinks of mountaintops and starry skies and breathes as deeply as he can, pinned like this, hearing Varric and Anders worrying after him. He snaps, at all of them, "I'm _fine._ "

"You sure, Hawke?" Varric rasps, and Fenris's breath on the back of his neck is as tense as Hawke feels, trying to anticipate his answer.

He says, quietly, "I'm sure." and is surprised when Fenris releases his hold on Hawke's now sore, tinglingly numb right arm. There is no good fortune to be found in questioning his good luck; he rubs at his wrist and stalks away from Fenris to rejoin the others, openly standing between them, glaring defiantly at the elf when Fenris tries to take a step closer to them, confused.

"You make no sense, mage," Fenris sighs, and turns to go, though there is something of a tremor in his hands. "...If you wish me to go, then I will."

A bolt of lightning, or a blast of force magic to knock Fenris away, would be so easy. Hawke is not that kind of person, and refuses to become it for any reason, for anyone. Instead, he straightens and widens his stance, defensive, glowering. "You're the one who said you didn't need my assistance," Hawke hisses, grinding the complaint against his own irritation, bitter. It is hardly the worst of the thousand tiny needles stuck in his side every minute of their association as Fenris vents his frustration. "No one here has ever said a word of praise to Tevinter. No one here has ever tried to hurt you or subjugate you."

His throat is tight, but he pushes on. If this is how it is to end, he wants to say it.

"I don't want to associate with someone who hates me just because of what I am. If you can't set that aside, then leave." And then he is done with Fenris, and turns back to Isabela, who is still unable to get up, and reaches inside _himself_ for the same well of power that Anders uses, bathing her lingering wounds in cool blue fire, and helping her up.

He does the same for Anders; and when he turns to leave, Varric and Isabela have made themselves scarce and only Fenris remains, lost and alone, scared as a small child. He lingers unknowingly by the entrance to the cellars of the old Amell estate, waiting for Hawke but looking at his hands, puzzled.

"...you are--" Fenris breathes, when Hawke approaches him, cautiously. "You are an abomination." When he does not go on, the wonder and fear in his voice too strong, Hawke simply nods once, and points to the stab wound Fenris has been trying to ignore since they met in the Docks. "--I don't have the right," he says very quietly, turning his face away in shame. It is the closest Hawke has ever heard Fenris come to apologizing.

Hawke says very quietly, "I live to help other people, Fenris. My whole life, I have served. I served my father and the people of Lothering as an apprentice; I served my mother, my Uncle, Athenril-- the Viscount, Meredith, Orsino, even the Arishok-- willingly. I want to help them. I want to help _you._ "

Fear lingers in Fenris's eyes, but he nods slowly in acceptance of this truth, and lets Hawke move close, resting a soothing hand on the newly-scabbed wound, the other on his injured leg. Hawke lays his forehead on Fenris's shoulder, and lets himself relax, feeling the energy flow through him, from his mind down his spine, into his shoulders, down his arms, into his fingertips.

"Magic is meant," he whispers, "to serve man, not rule over him." And Fenris's body knits itself whole, even as Hawke begins to feel that incurable, deep exhaustion that means he is very near the end of his reserves. "All I want is to be loved by someone who will not disappear. Someone who will not hate me." In his mind the spirit's power, already worn thin, seems to fade; this is how he knows when she is asleep, and his knees are suddenly rubbery beneath him, for they are halves of a whole, at this point. He fights not to fall into Fenris, and slowly, slowly lifts his head.

Fenris kisses him; his forehead, his cheek, and then his throat, apologetically. He thinks wistfully of mountains, forests. Of living far away from all these problems, of abandoning the world that abandoned him.

"If you must hate us all for what we do, then _please_ go. I can't-- I can't endure this anymore." Fenris's tongue slides along his neck and he catches his breath, pulling away before they can find themselves allowing pleasure to cloud their judgment. He will not let this drop; especially not when they are a stone's throw from Anders's clinic, and the man has expressed feelings for Hawke before. "Either you love me for what I am, or you don't. Just tell me which."

With a troubled rumble in his chest that might be agitation at being forced to choose, Fenris drops his outstretched hand, letting Hawke escape his reach. The Darktown smells are at their strongest, now. Day is breaking.

Fenris answers quietly,

"I love you." And, with no small amount of shuffling nervously, "I can't promise that I won't-- speak."

He can sense the dismay and confusion, and rubs his face tiredly. "I don't want you to make that promise," Hawke laughs, wryly. "I don't mind that you want to speak your mind. Just-- consider who you're speaking to." He manages a very tiny smile. "Have a heart, Fenris. We're only people, and everyone makes mistakes."

The elf's eyes narrow slightly. "Such as your association with a--" the telltale pause does not slip Hawke's notice, and he notes with alarm that calling Fade spirits 'spirits' and not demons seems to give Fenris difficulty. "--a spirit?"

"I don't consider that decision a mistake." Hawke smiles weakly. "Temperance has served me very well, these past years. Her first act was saving your life, you know, you should be grateful to her."

The incredulous expression on Fenris's face is a little like a gift. "When, exactly, did this happen?"

Hawke sighs, wavering where he stands. "I should be glad to regale you with the full story, but I'm a bit tired to be telling it here when there's a nice, soft chair up in my house that I could be using." Fenris steps closer, slinging an arm about his shoulders to support him, and he has to work to conceal his own surprise. "--ah, Fenris?"

"I want to know," the elf says quietly, that same air of shame about him. "I want to stay."

For a moment, fiercely, Hawke misses his mother, regrets that she can't see him trailing home the 'nice elf' she had tried to encourage him to see more of at last. Then he lets go, and focuses on the here and now, telling Fenris in a lilting murmur as they ascend the stairs up to Lowtown: "It was after we fought the dragon in the Deep Roads, if you remember that damn thing at all. You and Anders had both been spattered on the walls by the bloody thing, and we were running out of options..."


End file.
